


those english dramas

by witching



Series: oxford comma [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (some plot. very little plot), Ambiguous/Open Ending, Awkward Sexual Situations, Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, Complicated Relationships, Dirty Talk, First Time, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Season/Series 02, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: "Martin really doesn’t want to be alone, so it’s lucky for him that Tim pays attention, notices that Martin’s been leaving earlier these days, that he’s been working through his lunch breaks and punching out before anyone else. And when he notices, he asks. And when he asks, Martin tells him. And when Martin tells him, he insists on helping.So now they’re here, together, after dark and after they should have gone home, and Martin is finding that it’s a whole different brand of intense, but still, it’s much better not to be alone."
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: oxford comma [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1757500
Comments: 11
Kudos: 156





	those english dramas

**Author's Note:**

> \- this takes place sometime soon after mag58  
> \- theres little a plot bc this fic exists to explain why tim owes martin a favor in 'he always tells the truth', but you dont rly need to read that one to get this one

_ who gives a fuck about an oxford comma?  
i've seen those english dramas too, they're cruel  
so if there's any other way  
to spell the word, that's fine with me _

_ // vampire weekend, 'oxford comma' _

* * *

The archives are eerily quiet after hours, which can be plain creepy at times, but other times it makes Martin’s muscles seize up every time he has to turn a corner or open a cabinet. Now that he’s not living here anymore, Martin finds himself wanting to leave as early as possible, because being the last one at work after dark is a surefire way to make him work himself into a panic attack over nothing.

He feels guilty – about leaving early, about his job performance, about having feelings – but there isn’t much he can do about it. Things have been fraught lately with Tim and Jon, and Sasha is a good friend but they’re not all that close. He could never ask any of them to stay late with him so he could get more work done without freaking out over being alone. 

Martin really doesn’t want to be alone, so it’s lucky for him that Tim pays attention, notices that Martin’s been leaving earlier these days, that he’s been working through his lunch breaks and punching out before anyone else. And when he notices, he asks. And when he asks, Martin tells him. And when Martin tells him, he insists on helping. 

So now they’re here, together, after dark and after they should have gone home, and Martin is finding that it’s a whole different brand of intense, but still, it’s much better not to be alone. 

With Tim, it’s more than just the fact that Martin can relax a bit, doesn’t have to be on high alert at all times because there’s another person with him. It’s good because it’s  _ Tim, _ and he makes the work feel less like work. Time flies; it gets late fast and suddenly there isn’t really any work left to do, not unless they want to dive into a new project, but they’re not particularly keen to leave, either.

“This is nice,” Tim says, voice like a warm blanket. He’s leaning very far into Martin’s personal space, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care. “We don’t spend enough time together, just the two of us.”

“To be honest, Tim, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, after… you know,” Martin grimaces, not wanting to rehash their most recent argument. It isn’t worth going over it again, not when they’ve both said their piece and they know they can’t change each other’s minds.

“What, you thought I just wouldn’t want to be your friend anymore?” Tim asks incredulously. “I may not agree with your decisions, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

Martin sighs, looks at the floor and then back up at Tim. “I didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. I didn’t want to hear you tell me that it wasn’t worth it anymore, you know? I…” he swallows, blinks back the threat of tears, and finishes: “I didn’t want you to reject me.”

His face softening, eyes wide and sad, Tim leans closer almost imperceptibly. “Martin,” he murmurs with a pained softness, “you’ve got to give yourself a lot more credit. You’re  _ so  _ worth it.”

A blush spreads hot across Martin’s cheeks, and he looks down at the floor. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Martin.” Tim’s tone is very intense, dark and heavy and close, enveloping Martin like a cocoon. His eyes are mesmerizing, hypnotic, and Martin almost misses the words for the sound of his voice and the faint scent of his conditioner and the deep sincerity writ on his face. 

Tim swallows audibly, his gaze flicking down to Martin’s mouth for a split second before he meets Martin’s eyes again and whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

“I’d like that,” Martin answers breathlessly.

Tim is all over him almost before the words have left his mouth. It’s a small gap of space to cross to press their lips together with a crushing force, to grab Martin’s face and hold onto him like a life preserver, inhaling sharply through his nose as if the air surrounding Martin is intoxicating.

It may well be, Martin thinks, if his own lightheadedness and deliriousness is anything to go by. Time almost stops completely with Tim’s lips on his, and Martin slips his hands under Tim’s shirt to press greedily into his lower back, to pull him closer. 

When Tim licks into his mouth, Martin gasps and lets him in without pause. His hands curl around, thumbs rubbing Tim’s hips while his fingertips dig into Tim’s back, holding him in a tight grip and bringing their bodies flush with each other from knees to chest.

They only separate ever so slightly when Tim snakes a hand down between their torsos, fingering tentatively over the button of his slacks and pulling away from the kiss by mere centimeters to give him a questioning look. Martin breathes heavily, looks at him with half-lidded eyes, and licks his lips absently before he catches up to what Tim is getting at.

“Are you sure?” he asks, casting a furtive glance in the direction of the door, beyond the stacks. “Here? Now?”

“No better time, I think,” Tim murmurs, his eyes once again gravitating toward Martin’s lips. He takes the smallest step back, giving Martin a bit of space, and adds, “Only if you want to, of course.”

“I want to,” Martin assures him quickly. “I really, really… yeah. Yeah, please.”

Tim’s hand moves lower, palming at Martin’s half-hard cock through his clothes. Martin gasps softly, bites his lip, and it encourages Tim to undo the button and zipper of Martin’s trousers and slip his hand inside, touching him now with only the thin layer of his boxers separating their skin. 

Martin bucks into his touch, rubbing against Tim’s hand as best he can. When Tim only doubles down on his efforts, Martin reaches out impulsively to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pull him into a searing kiss, all mingled breaths and wandering tongues and gentle scrapes of teeth.

It’s a miracle, Martin will realize later, that he hears the door open. In the moment, it feels less like a blessing and more like the worst thing that could possibly happen, but later he will be glad he heard it, at least. The quiet click of the latch, the slight creak of the hinges is enough to make him detach himself from Tim’s mouth, pressing a finger to his lips and straining his ears.

What he hears, against all probability, is Jon. The sound is muffled by the rows of shelves that separate them from the door to Jon’s office, but Martin could place the tenor and the cadence of his voice in the midst of any crowd.

He looks at Tim with wide eyes, panic starting to overtake him, his chest constricting uncomfortably. Tim looks back at him, caught halfway between exasperation at being interrupted and sheer delight at the awkwardness of the situation. He freezes for only a moment before dropping to the floor and crawling under Martin’s desk.

Martin starts to ask what on earth he’s doing, but Tim shushes him, gestures for him to sit down. “Pretend I’m not here,” he whispers, and Martin can’t think of any way to object or any other plan of action that wouldn’t get them immediately caught out, so he does it. He sits in his chair, positions it so that Tim would only be visible to someone lying on the floor and peering around Martin’s legs, which Jon is unlikely to do.

Jon rounds the corner half a second later and immediately pulls up short, clearly shocked that he’s not alone in the archives. “Martin,” he says, making an effort to sound like he’s  _ pleasantly  _ surprised, “what are you still doing here?”

“I just thought I should put in a few extra hours,” Martin tells him, still trying to catch his breath, heart pounding out of his chest. “With everything that’s been happening, you know, I figured I should chip in a bit more.”

“Oh?” Jon cocks his head to the side, narrows his eyes. “What’s been  _ happening, _ Martin?”

"Nothing!" Martin replies, too quickly, too loudly. Jon doesn't look convinced, just stands there with his hands on his hips looking at Martin, while under the desk, Tim starts  _ touching  _ him again. Just hands on his thighs, rubbing circles into his skin, but it’s enough to make Martin tremble and hold back a whimper. "Nothing's happening," he repeats, his voice going up an octave, "just, I mean, with – what I told you the other week, and, and your birthday?"

"My birthday," Jon echoes flatly.

Martin nods fervently, bites his lip against a moan threatening to rise from his chest. Tim’s fingers are dangerously close to his cock, and he wants, he wants it so badly, but Jon is right there. "Yeah. I just wanted to… pick up the slack, I guess,” Martin says breathlessly. “Make sure you don't have to do everything by yourself."

This, at least, is the truth, and apparently Jon believes it as well. He purses his lips for a long moment, giving Martin a cool look. "Don't stay too late," he says at length, stern and clipped. "I need you awake during the work day."

While Martin's heart and stomach are doing flips at that, Jon mumbles something about going home himself, shuffles off back to his office. Martin sits completely still and silent for a minute, until he hears Jon open the door again and leave the archives, and Tim keeps touching him the whole time, wrapping his fingers around Martin’s shaft when Jon is out of earshot and working him back to full hardness. The building is old, and the elevator can be heard clearly from any place in the basement, so it's easy to tell when the coast is all the way clear.

"Fucking hell," Martin mutters, pushing his chair back from the desk to give Tim a look. He’s prepared to tell him off, to scold him for making the situation more difficult than it had to be, but then Tim looks up at him, all pleading eyes and full lips parted just enough, and tilts his head questioningly. And, well. They’re alone now, and Martin’s turned on, and there’s always time later to yell at Tim. “Fine,” he sighs, sounding much more exasperated and far less eager than he is, “go for it.”

Far from discouraged by Martin’s lack of enthusiasm, Tim gets right to it, leans forward and wraps his lips around the head of Martin’s cock. Martin’s hands migrate to rest on either side of Tim’s head, twisting into his hair without pulling, holding him without controlling. Tim hums in approval, swirling his tongue around the very tip of his cock, teasing at the slit, and Martin has to resist the urge to thrust into his mouth.

Tim is eager, hungry for it, moving forward to take more of Martin’s cock, moaning when the head hits the back of his throat. Martin moans as well, a reedy noise from high in his chest, and tightens his fingers in Tim's hair, encouraging him to take it deeper, and Tim inhales sharply through his nose and takes him all the way to the root in one swift motion.

His throat is tight and perfect around Martin's cock, his nose nestled into the dark curls at the base, his forehead leaning against the soft swell of Martin's stomach. He swallows around the thick length in his throat, squeezing around Martin's cock in a slow, deliberate move, before pulling his head back a few inches, bobbing up and down with practiced ease. 

Martin is a bit incredulous about the whole thing, the fact that Tim is kneeling under his desk and sucking his cock. He feels about ready to explode just from  _ thinking _ the words, not to mention the actual sensation and the sight of it. He realizes at some point that he's being uncharacteristically quiet, in his head about the fact that they’re still technically at work, but nobody is around anymore, so Martin lets loose, filthy praise flowing from his lips without a second thought.

“God, Tim, you’re so good,” he babbles aimlessly. “You feel so good.”

Tim whines high in his throat, sending delicious vibrations through Martin’s body, tingling up his spine and down to his feet. He curls his toes in his shoes and curls his fingers against Tim’s scalp, bucking up into the wet heat of his mouth. A little whimper escapes Tim then, a desperate, needy sound, his tongue flexing along the underside of Martin’s cock as he relaxes his throat to let Martin in, to show off a bit more.

“You like that, don’t you?” Martin mutters, his breath catching, and he feels more than hears the small hum of agreement Tim offers in reply. “Fuck. You’re – you look so nice on your knees for me. So gorgeous with my cock in your mouth, taking it all so well – God, fuck, I’m so close, Tim…” He trails off with Tim’s name on his lips, a choked half-moan constricting his throat as he loses the ability to use words. 

Tim moves back, pulls off of him slowly until a few inches remain in his mouth, the head of Martin’s cock resting on the center of his tongue, and then he keeps sucking, his cheeks hollowed as he works to bring Martin to the edge. Martin’s hands loosen their hold on Tim, moving to pet his hair affectionately instead, little coos of approval sprinkled throughout. 

One of Tim’s hands slides up the inside of Martin’s thigh to wrap fingers around the base of his cock, to work over the length of it that isn’t in Tim’s mouth, while his other hand migrates down to palm at the bulge in his own pants.

That’s what does it for Martin, in the end: the knowledge that Tim is enjoying this so much that he has to touch himself to take the edge off his own arousal. Martin gasps out another warning, just in case, a fervent “Tim, Tim, I’m gonna –,” and then he cuts off with a low moan as he spills inside Tim’s mouth. 

His eyes closed, cheeks flushed from effort and arousal, Tim makes quite the picture. He keeps sucking Martin through his orgasm, fisting the base of his cock, wringing every last drop of pleasure from his body until Martin goes tense and whines from the stimulation on his oversensitive nerves. When Tim pulls off, Martin’s come still on his tongue, he makes a deliberate show of swallowing it all indulgently, breathing a decadent sigh.

Martin watches him, eyes wide and wondering, until he regains his breath enough to reach his hands out, beckoning for Tim to come to him. Tim complies immediately, unquestioningly, rising to his feet using a hand on Martin’s thigh for leverage, wincing at the dull protests of his knees. He opens his mouth to say something – something snarky, something flirty, something smooth – but Martin beats him to the punch, looking up at him with all the sincerity in the world and murmuring, “Can I stroke you off?”

There is no universe in which Tim would ever say no to that. He nods his head jerkily, his breath coming in stuttering pulses, and keeps his eyes glued to Martin’s face as the other man pops the button on his jeans, slips deft fingers past the waistband of his boxer briefs and pulls his cock out. He’s painfully hard, aching to be touched, and a guttural moan claws its way out of his throat when Martin finally wraps his plump, soft fingers around Tim’s cock.

Tim stammers out some stray snippets of praise, nothing approaching his usual standards of dirty talk, but this is a special situation. It’s hard to think straight when Martin is maintaining intense, heated eye contact, his lips parted in a small expression of wonder while he pulls breathy moans and sighs from Tim with ease. Tim manages to eke out a few phrases, “That’s good,” and “Yeah, right there,” and “Fuck, Martin,” but he has neither the wherewithal nor the time to form more coherent sentences.

He comes fast, embarrassingly so, spilling over Martin’s fist with a strangled cry. Tim’s eyes squeeze shut as he tumbles over the edge and Martin works him through his orgasm, but when he opens them again Martin is still looking up at his face. Before Martin even removes his hand from Tim’s softening cock, Tim reaches behind him to grab a tissue from Martin’s desk, offering it to Martin, who wipes off his hand and disposes of it quickly and efficiently.

There’s a minute of stillness, of quiet, while they face opposite directions and tuck themselves back into their clothes, take a few deep breaths. Then Tim turns to see Martin, still sitting in his desk chair, leaning back and looking exhausted but thoroughly satisfied. Tim smiles at him, a broad, bright grin, and Martin offers him a small quirk of the lips in return before tensing his jaw.

“You owe me,” Martin says, “big time.” He sounds exasperated, but not quite angry, and he doesn’t offer any elaboration, just waits for Tim to get it.

“I sucked your dick,” Tim points out. “That’s not good enough?”

“Tim, I’m serious,” Martin scolds, frowning deeply at him. “He’s already on edge all the time, you  _ know  _ this, and that  _ really  _ didn’t help. I just got him off my back, and he’s probably suspicious all over again now because you couldn’t keep it in your pants for two minutes.”

Tim holds back several snide comments, most of which revolve around how much he does not care what Jon thinks, because he knows Martin does care. And he knows that, regardless of his personal feelings, it doesn’t bode well for their professional environment for Jon to be questioning their loyalties and motivations and sanities.

“Right,” he says, bowing his head shamefully. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Martin smiles again, wider and more genuine this time. “That’s okay,” he assures Tim in a voice like the perfect cup of tea. “I mean, I’m glad you – I’m glad that we did that. But you owe me one.”

Tim frowns thoughtfully, biting his lip, and then pivots on his heels, searching Martin’s desk until he finds what he’s looking for: a scrap of paper and a pen. He bends over to write something, giving Martin a delicious view to distract him from whatever nonsense he’s up to. A few seconds later, he turns back around and presents Martin with the paper, which reads in his thin, slanting hand:

> _ i.o.u. one big favor! - timothy stoker _

He’s decorated the margins of the note with three little frowny faces and one speech bubble that says  _ Sorry! _ Martin takes it from him with a fond laugh, shaking his head, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. 

Emboldened, feeling like he’s atoned appropriately, Tim leans down until his face is level with Martin’s, bats his eyelashes a few times. “Can I kiss you again?” he asks, barely a whisper.

Martin forgets how to breathe, but remembers how to nod his head, so that’s what he does. Tim moves in slowly, carefully, like he’s still a bit afraid that Martin might change his mind, until their lips meet, soft and sweet. Martin’s hand goes up to Tim’s cheek, and Tim mirrors the motion so they’re holding each other’s faces gently as they kiss.

Even though he’s done his apologizing already, Tim kisses like he’s making up for something. His breaths are slow and even, deliberately measured, and his eyelids flutter shut as he moves his mouth against Martin’s, the tender press of lips like a benediction, like a plea. There’s a long, suspended moment before Tim opens his mouth, runs his tongue along the seam of Martin’s lips.

He gasps when Martin lets him in, wastes no time in showing his gratitude. Martin lets out a breathy little moan as Tim licks into his mouth, slides their tongues together so expertly that he’s sure it has to mean something, it has to be something more than a kiss, but of course, it isn’t. 

The kiss is languid and unhurried, and Tim only pulls away when the position starts to really put a strain on his neck. He looks down at Martin, his lips swollen and wet, his pupils blown wide, and thinks about how he probably looks even more debauched, himself.

“You,” Martin begins raggedly, then clears his throat and tries again. “You taste like come,” he says, wrinkling his nose as if he’s actually put out about it.

“You can’t complain,” Tim scoffs, “it’s your come! You can’t be upset about the fact that you came in my mouth. I’m sorry, I simply won’t allow it.”

“I’m not upset,” Martin says with a roll of his eyes, a fond little laugh. “It’s just not a good taste, is all.”

“I rather enjoyed it,” Tim shrugs, “but if it’s that much of an issue…” 

He reaches down to grab Martin’s hand, the one that’s been balled into a fist at his side since they started kissing, and gently unfurls his fingers to take back the paper he’s holding. Tim turns back to the desk, picks up the pen, and adds something before presenting the note to Martin once again.

Martin laughs out loud when he reads it. Tim has written, in the space below his first message, much smaller: 

> _ (+ one small favor) _

Tim grins, pleased with himself. “Does that make us even? For the Jon thing and the come taste?” His tone is playful and warm, with just a tinge of earnestness, just enough to let Martin know that he really is sorry, at least for the Jon thing.

“Yeah,” Martin nods decisively. “Yeah, for now.”

Holding out a hand to help Martin up from his chair, Tim moves to put on his jacket, ready to go home, to get out of the basement and get a few hours of sleep before having to be back in the morning. He’s grinning, watching Martin gather up his things, glowing with pride and affection. He keeps staring at Martin, apparently unnoticed, as they leave the building, walk together to the tube station.

When they say goodbye, Martin catches Tim off guard by planting a firm kiss on his lips, bold and unabashed. “I  _ will  _ be calling in those favors,” he says as he pulls away, quirking an eyebrow at Tim in a way that can almost be called coy.

Martin is already walking away by the time Tim manages to call out his name, and he turns around at the sound of Tim’s voice and smiles at him. Tim smiles back, beaming in a way that he hopes oozes confidence, and clears his throat before offering a small mock salute and a typical cocky reply. 

“I’m counting on it,” he says, and then, “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Martin bites his lip, nods once at him. “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”


End file.
